Mystery on Pine Lake

By Tamra Wight and Carl DiRocco

Cooper thought living at a campground would be cool. But summer’s turning out to be all chores, no fun. Cooper’s only bright spot is his new friend, Packrat, a guy who carries the world in his coat pockets and leaves his troubles behind. But trouble has come to the Wilder Family Campground and Pine Lake, where a family of loons is trying to build a nest. Someone is out to harm the loons. Is it the bully with a chip on his shoulder? The irritable camper with a shady past? Or the publicity-seeking reporter? It’s up to the boys to figure out who, why, and how to stop the culprit – before it’s too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Islandport Press
• Release date: Aug 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781934031667

Tamra Wight

For twenty-five years, Tamra Wight and her family owned and ran Poland Spring Campground, which provided her with plenty of inspiration for her spirited and exciting fiction. She weaves details from her daily life into her books, drawing on everything from campground chores to unexpected wildlife encounters to inform her writing. She now works as a teaching assistant and lives in Turner, Maine. When Tamra isn't writing, she enjoys wildlife watching, hiking, geo-caching, kayaking, power-walking, and snowshoeing. She can often be found (for those who know where to look) hiding under her “cloak of invisibility,” a huge poncho-shaped camouflage cloth that she uses to disguise herself from passing skunks, coyotes, and foxes.

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Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Loons have been known to battle to the death to protect their territory, but the argument usually ends with the loser giving up and flying away.

Don’t let it be a gross one, don’t let it be a gross one, I prayed over and over in my head as I looked down on the metal trash can. Grasping the lid handle, I hoped this one would have the usual trash on top, like half-eaten burgers, slimy potato salad, plastic marshmallow bags, empty Hershey bar wrappers, or a squished-up graham cracker box.

I sucked in a breath and lifted the lid. Flies came out like a puff of steam. The lifeless, black beady eyes of some half-eaten lobsters lay on top of the trash, staring up at me. Little white maggots squiggled in and out of the leg holes. I groaned and let my breath out in a whoosh.

I quickly grabbed the bag with two hands and hauled it up and out of the can to set it on the ground. The lobster shells and guts shifted. Their horrible stench flew right up my nose.

Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up. My throat started to do that watery thing, and I tried breathing really fast to get it to stop. Then I felt something in my mouth.

Something buzzing.

A fly!

I dropped the bag and leaned forward to spit on the ground again and again and again. Shuddering, I spit one more time to make sure there wasn’t a wing or an antenna still floating around under my tongue or something. Then I rubbed my sleeve over my mouth as I quickly checked over both shoulders. Whew. It didn’t look like anybody had seen my almost-hurl.

Taking a breath, I held it in deep this time, and double-knotted the bag as tightly as I could.

Why did I always get the ultra-gross trash cans?

On the other side of the road, Dad whistled as he walked from campsite to campsite, emptying cans. He’d already tied three bags to my one, grabbing them by the knot and heaving them high into the air to land on all the other bags in the dump truck bed. I had no idea what he had to whistle about. I mean, I could think of a gazillion things I’d rather be doing on a drizzly Saturday morning in May than almost barfing up a fly.

I searched the truck bed for the perfect landing spot so the bag wouldn’t bounce back out or get hung up on the tall wooden sides. I swung it back and forth like a horseshoe. Just as I opened my hand to let the bag fly, my arm got bumped from behind.

I realized two things at the exact same time. One, it was no accidental bump. I knew this from the evil grin Roy shot me over his shoulder as he rode past on his bike. And two, that bag had gone straight up in the air over my head.

Ducking quickly out of the way, I then turned to watch helplessly as the bag hit the ground and split wide open like an old jack-o’-lantern that’d been heaved onto someone’s driveway. Coffee grounds, potato peels, slimy green paper towels, little cereal boxes, and a carton of chunky milk exploded from it. Splatters of lobster guts hit my sneakers and the bottom of my jeans.

I glared at Roy, who’d skidded to a stop next to my dad to gloat over the mess.

Cooper! Dad yelled. How many times have I told you to be more careful?

Roy hit my arm on purpose!

Roy’s smug smile turned to a sad little frown in the split second it took for Dad to look down at him. Honest, Mr. Wilder, it was an accident. I was trying to go around the puddle. I didn’t see Cooper there, doing the trash run.

Those last two words were said with just enough of a sneer for me to hear it, and my dad to miss it.

Dad put a hand on Roy’s damp, red-haired head. After all the rain we’ve had, I’m surprised you can avoid puddles at all. He looked at me. How about you apologize to Roy?

But, Dad . . . he . . . he really . . .

Roy’s smug smile was back, now that Dad was looking my way. I balled up my hands, itching to charge that liar and knock him off his bike into one of the puddles he’d claimed to be avoiding.

I’d stomped halfway to the dump truck for a shovel and a rake before Dad cleared his throat. Rolling my eyes, I turned to give Roy a wicked sarcastic apology that would probably get me a speech from Dad. But before I could say a word, a voice came from behind me.

The kid on the bike did it on purpose. A skinny boy about my age and size stepped up next to me. He and his mom had moved into site six yesterday, and he’d kind of stuck in my mind on account of the big tan trench coat he wore all the time.

Roy scowled at the new kid. You’re a big fat liar!

The kid pushed his wet, brown, shaggy bangs to one side and stared coolly at Roy. I saw you.

Dad held up both hands, looking between the two kids. Ohhh-kay. I’m sure there’s a good explanation here. Somewhere. Let’s let it go for now. Coop and I need to get this trash run done so we can get to the dump before it starts raining again.

Dad went to get an empty trash bag. Roy looked at the new kid and me, raised his fist, and silently motioned it into the palm of his other hand before racing off on his bike toward the playground.

The new kid reached for my shovel to help. As I raked the trash into a pile for him to pick up, I said, Thanks!

No problem. He was about to say more when we heard static. I put a hand to my camp radio, half expecting it to be Mom needing me to do a chore, or Molly wanting me to push her on the swing or something. But it wasn’t my radio making all the noise. I looked at the new kid. He was elbow deep in one of the many outside pockets of his detective-like coat. Pulling out his own walkie-talkie, he sighed into it. Mom?

More static.

Mom! Hold the button down, then talk.

Laughter came through. I’ll figure it out soon, Pete, I promise, she said. Breakfast is ready. Come on back to the site.

Waffles, he said, rubbing his stomach with a grin. Catch up with you in a bit?

I shook my head. Maybe later? Dad and I are going out on the lake after the trash run. Feeling Dad’s hand on my shoulder, I grinned up at him.

But he looked down at me with a sad I-hope-you’ll-understand-when-I-ditch-you-again-to-work look.

Dad! You promised you’d go this time. You said, ‘No matter what’!

I know, I know. But something’s come up. A camper on Raccoon Trail told your mom there’s a dead tree behind his pop-up that’s leaning heavy to one side this morning. Dad lifted his hat to run a hand through his short hair. And of course, it’s leaning toward the campsite. So before the wind and the rain drop it, I’ve got to chop the tree down, cut it up, and clean up the mess.

My words came out in a rush. But patrolling the lake is important too! The loons haven’t laid their eggs yet. They’re wicked late. What if they don’t lay any at all? You told me more and more campers were coming to see them, right? The eagle babies are poking their heads above the nest now, and the beavers have been—

Cooper, you’re twelve now. Dad frowned. You need to understand that just because we’re the owners doesn’t mean I can drop everything when I feel like it and play game warden with you.

I don’t play it, Dad—I do it! And I haven’t done it in, like, a week. Please?

Dad squeezed my shoulder, which was code for Sorry, but no means no.

I stepped out from under his hand. Without Dad, I couldn’t go out on the lake. Rule of two: No fishing without a friend. No boating without a friend.

Only, I didn’t have any friends right now. Or did I?

Ignoring the tight feeling in my throat, I called out to the new kid who was walking away.

Hey! What had his mom called him? Umm, Pete? When he turned around, I said, Change in plans! Want to go out on the lake? In half an hour?

Pete gave me a thumbs-up. Get me when you’re done. I’ll hang out on the playground after I eat.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Now if I could just get this trash run done before one of the camp kids told him he wasn’t supposed to hang out with me.

As Dad and I finished scooping up Roy’s exploded mess, he tried talking to me, but yes and no answers were all he was getting. I’d been waiting days—no, a month—to go out in the canoe with him. No way was I forgiving him in two minutes.

The drizzle had stopped, but now the mayflies were out in full force. I slapped the back of my neck and rubbed my short, dirty-blond hair every time they swarmed me. Dad and I took care of the last can on the street, then he jumped in the truck’s driver seat while I stood outside on the passenger side running board. Those mayflies couldn’t land on me to suck my blood as long as we were rolling.

At the end of the road, Dad took a right. He was only driving about five miles an hour, but the wind made my eyes sting. Pines, maples, birches, and elms stood on both sides of the road as far as I could see. Sixty acres full of nature, and it was all ours. Wilder Family Campground.

One hand on the door handle, I reached out as far as I could to slap the heavy branches out of my way, so I didn’t get swatted in the face or legs.

Cooper! Dad said, his sharp voice almost making me jump back off the running board. Hold on with both hands. If you fall off and get hurt, your mother will never let us hear the end of it.

When we reached the lake, the trees opened up to show a large beach with a roped-off swimming area. To the left of that, paddle boards, kayaks, canoes, and rowboats in every size and color were tied to our docks. Back from the beach under the pine grove stood picnic tables and grills on posts.

Dad parked and I leaned in the open passenger window. So, I’ll do the beach cans, then go back up to get the game-room and playground cans, I said. Then I’m done for the morning, right?

Yep. Let’s meet at say, one o’clock, to clean the bathrooms.

I glanced at Dad’s watch. Counting the cans I still had to empty, and a trip to the dump to help him unload, Pete and I would get about two hours to kayak. I wonder if he likes to fish?

As I jumped off the running board, a short, baldish, round guy wearing a green raincoat looked our way from where he stood on the dock. Arms waving in a big way, Mr. Beakman shouted, Hey, Jim! Got a minute? When Dad got out of the truck and nodded, the man said, Just need to tie up my boat first.

I knew I was about to whine like Molly whenever she lost her purple stuffed elephant, but there was no stopping

Reviews for Mystery on Pine Lake

[scote23 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Potential MSBA--learned a lot about loons, realistic campground life.